


Like Columbus Day, But Better

by KitsJay



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, kinkmeme fill, so hey guess what I was the Christmas anon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 10:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: Monroe tries to figure out why Nick doesn't like Christmas.





	Like Columbus Day, But Better

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the Grimm kinkmeme.

“I’ve seen department stores with fewer decorations than you,” Nick grunted, hauling down a box labeled “ORNAMENTS” in neat black marker. He let it fall to the floor, panting. “That’s the last one.”

“Are you sure? I thought—“

“Let me revise that,” Nick said. “That’s the last one that I’m hauling down from the attic. I think fifteen boxes of decorations is plenty.”

“But—“ Monroe looked longingly at the stairs. Nick cut him off with a warning look. “Fine. I don’t know what you have against Christmas.”

“I have nothing against Christmas. It’s a fine holiday,” said Nick with a shrug.

“ ‘Fine’? Really? That’s what I’m talking about, this weird lack of joy for the season.”

“It’s just not my thing,” Nick said patiently.

Monroe stared at him in disbelief before shaking his head in disgust and bending to open one of the boxes. “Weirdo,” he muttered under his breath. Nick ignored him and helped him haul out what looked like an inflatable Santa and several plastic candy canes. Well, he thought wryly, so long as it’s _tasteful._

By mid-afternoon, the house looked like the North Pole had vomited inside the house. Every surface had Christmas lights hanging from hooks, the stairs banister was wrapped in a fir garland trimmed with gold ribbon, and Nick was currently on his back underneath a tree, adjusting the stand.

“No, more to the right. Little more. To the front. No, too far.”

“Monroe, if you don’t make up your mind, I am going to kill you. And remember, I’m a cop, so there wouldn’t be any evidence,” Nick said seriously, spitting out pine needles that had fallen into his mouth while the tree adjusted.

“That’s good,” Monroe said hastily. “Right there’s perfect.”

Nick crawled out from under the tree, brushing off spruce needles from his clothes and dusting off his hair. A shower of foliage fell to the floor.

“Want to help me hang the mistletoe next?” Monroe asked, wiggling his eyebrows and leering.

Nick smiled, collapsing onto the couch. “In a minute. I need a break.”

“Kissing isn’t strenuous,” Monroe said, sitting down next to him and putting a companionable arm around him. Nick snuggled in closer, allowing himself to be cuddled next to Monroe’s side. He leaned his head on one broad shoulder.

“Mmm,” he said tiredly. “It is if you’re doing it right.”

Monroe gave him a quick peck on the head and carded his fingers through his hair. Nick hummed happily, tilting his head so that Monroe could scratch the back of his neck lightly. If he had been a cat, he would have been purring.

“Hey,” he nudged him when Nick’s head slipped into the crevice of his neck. “Don’t fall asleep on me. We’ve still got to hang the lights outside and put up the wreath.”

Nick groaned, burying his face in Monroe’s neck and muttering something indistinguishable.

“Want to try again in English?” Monroe said dryly.

Pulling his face back, Nick enunciated clearly, “You are crazy.”

“I’m not the one who hates Christmas.”

Nick pulled away, sighing and crossing his arms across his chest. Monroe’s side felt cold at the sudden disappearance of the warm body tucked against his own. “I don’t hate it.”

“Really,” Monroe said skeptically.

“Really,” Nick insisted. “It’s just… not my favorite holiday.”

“Let me guess, Columbus Day?”

Nick sighed again. “My parents died December 1. I remember everyone tramping around and everyone was so sympathetic. No one really knew what to do with me. I heard them talking about putting me in foster care and I remember crawling under my parents’ bed. They had a bunch of my presents hidden under there. I don’t even know what was in them. They must have gotten lost in everything that followed. It was just surreal, you know? I was too young to really know what was going on, I just know that everyone was acting weird and they told me my parents were dead but it didn’t really make sense, I guess. That Christmas I spent being bounced around from one place to the next, because no one could find Aunt Marie and there was some bureaucratic red tape and Christmas wasn’t exactly their number one priority. Since then, it’s just never really been my favorite holiday. Brings up too many bad memories, I guess.”

Monroe could have slapped himself. He leaned over and grabbed a fistful of Nick’s shirt sleeve, pulling him into his lap and wrapping his arms around him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

“It’s okay,” Nick said, voice muffled in his shirt front. “You didn’t know.”

“I just have so many great memories of Christmas,” said Monroe, unsure of whether this was the right thing to say. Nick was silent, and he continued. “All of my family would get together and for once, it wasn’t a bad thing. We’d decorate the tree together and my mom and aunts would ban everyone from the kitchen while they made Christmas dinner. When Christmas came, we’d all wake up at dawn and sneak down to open our gifts and my parents would complain it was too early, but they were happy, watching us shake out our stockings and rip into our presents. Everyone was happy. Things are weird now. They don’t really understand the whole reformed blutbad thing, too traditional, and I guess this is my way of recapturing that time when all of us were happy.”

Nick lifted his head and propped his chin on Monroe’s chest. “You’re not happy now?”

“Of course I am,” Monroe said, squeezing him. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I love it when you sweet-talk me,” Nick said with a grin before resting his head on Monroe’s chest again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Monroegrouched, but he added, “I am happy with you. Happier than I’ve ever been. Which is why I just want you to know how great Christmas can be, make some memories together so it’s not recapturing that happiness, it’s reliving it.”

“You’re a poet,” Nick murmured. “You should work for Hallmark or something.”

“Shut up and enjoy the moment,” Monroe growled.

They lay like that for a while, enjoying the silence and each other’s company, warm bodies nestled against each other like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting together. Outside it was cold and the promise of snow hung in the air, people rushing to the post office to send off Christmas cards, or to pick up a tree and bring it home to decorate with their kids, or to find that perfect gift for their loved ones, but inside, it was comfortable and quiet, just the two of them together.

 

The next morning, Nick wandered into the kitchen yawning, and stopped abruptly when he saw Monroe standing in front of the stove, making pancakes. He was wearing a monstrosity of a sweater, like a parody of grandma’s gifts ever knitted. It was an eye-scorching shade of green and had a reindeer on the front with a red nose that actually protruded from the surface, and antlers made of felt that flopped forward when he moved.

“Coffee?” Nick asked. If he was going to face something like that, he might as well be prepared.

Monroe handed him a mug and let him take a sip before speaking.

“So, uh,” he fidgeted with his pants. “I was thinking about what we were talking about last night.”

Nick’s mouth curled up into a grin, half-hidden behind the rim of his mug. “The part where I said, ‘harder, harder’ or the part where you—“

“Not that,” Monroe interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Before, on the sofa.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific. That sofa’s seen a lot of action.”

“Will you let me do this right?”

Surprised, Nick nodded wordlessly and let Monroe continue.

“I was going to give this to you for Christmas, but…” He shoved a red and gold package into Nick’s hands. “I thought it might be better to give it to you earlier.”

Curious, Nick set his coffee aside and carefully unwrapped the paper and pulled out a thick mahogany frame. Inside was a blown-up picture of his parents and him when he was a little kid, beaming happily at the family, arms around each other. His mom looked as pretty as he remembered, her espresso hair pulled back, a few strands curling delicately around her face and neck, wide mouth open in a smile. His dad’s grey eyes met his through the glass pane, offering the camera a wide grin. The picture-him was about eight years old, missing a tooth in front and proudly showing it off. He stroked a finger over the surface.

“Where did you,” he started, paused and felt a thickness in the back of his throat. He cleared it. “Where did you get this?”

Monroe shrugged, looking uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. “I found some old boxes of yours from when you moved in while I was looking for the rest of the decorations. That picture was in one of them and I took it to a guy I know, got it blown up and restored and framed. I thought you might like it.” He waited while Nick stared wordlessly at the photograph. “Can you say something? Because I’m kind of freaking here. If you don’t like it, that’s fine—“

Nick forewent reassurances and instead walked up to Monroe, wrapping his arms around his neck and tugging him down into a deep kiss. He rested his forehead against his, closing his eyes. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Monroe rumbled, content to let Nick lean against him for a moment. Nick finally released him, offering him another kiss before carefully placing the frame down on the counter. “I just thought that maybe if you had a good Christmas memory…” He trailed off and shrugged.

“I’ve got one now,” Nick said with a soft smile.

He didn’t even care if he was being sappy: it was Christmas, after all.


End file.
